Guilt twists in my stomach. Willow told me everything when her ex cheated—every ugly detail, every crying jag at 2 a.m. She trusted me with her worst moments. And here I am, hiding my best ones.
But how do I explain that I’ve handed control of my body to a man I met at a Halloween party? That I like it? That the word “fucktoy” makes me wet instead of offended?
How do you explain this stuff? I just hope she forgives me when I finally figure out the words.
When we get to the car, Willow hugs me goodbye with promises to text about her next date.
Willow, work, the apartment I’m moving into after New Year’s—that’s my real life. The boring one waiting for me when this ends.
I haven’t even slept a single night in my new apartment yet, and I’m not looking forward to it. What happens when this thing with Leo is over? What happens when I have to go back to being the person I was before—the one who didn’t know what she wanted, who was too scared to ask for it even if she did?
I don’t want to be her again.
I’m not sure I even can be.
Later, I’m curled up on the couch with Leo. The Christmas tree casts soft colored light across the room. The fire crackles low. We’ve fallen into a rhythm over the past few days. Cooking together, relaxing in the living room, and watching the tree. It’sless like an arrangement now and more like a life. That thought should probably scare me more than it does.
What actually scares me is how easily I lied to Willow. How natural it’s becoming to keep this whole world separate.
My head rests against Leo’s chest where I can hear his heartbeat, steady and sure, like everything about him. Neither of us speaks. We don’t need to. The silence between us has become comfortable. My fingers trace idle patterns on his chest as I watch the tree lights blink through their slow rotation. Red, then gold, then green, then white. The star on top creates tiny prisms across the ceiling.
This is the kind of moment I used to dream about during those panicked weeks of apartment hunting—not luxury, not even sex, but this. Being held by someone who makes the world go quiet.
Burrowing deeper into Leo’s side, I breathe in oranges and spice. Whatever this is, wherever it’s going, right now I’m exactly where I want to be.
We stay like that for a long time. The fire pops while the snow outside the window falls gently.
My eye catches on an ornament I haven’t noticed before. It’s a delicate glass angel, older and more worn than the others. It looks handmade.
“The angel ornament is beautiful.” My voice comes out soft as I nod toward it.
Leo follows my gaze. Something in his face shifts, and the easy contentment fades, replaced by something quieter. More distant. The lines around his mouth deepen.
I lift my head to look at him properly. “Leo? What is it?”
He’s silent for a moment, eyes still fixed on the angel. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough at the edges. “My mum made that. The year before she died.”
My breath catches. I’m curious about his life. There’s so much I don’t know about him. I wait, giving him space, my hand pressing flat against his chest over his heart.
“She loved Christmas.” The words come slowly. “She’d start decorating the day after Thanksgiving. It drove my father mad.” A soft huff of laughter, but something hollow underneath it. “The whole house smelled of cinnamon and pine from November through January.”
I press closer, letting him know I’m listening. His hand tightens briefly on my shoulder.
“She died when I was fourteen. Cancer. It was quick, at least. Six months from diagnosis to—six months.”
‘I’m sorry’ seems too small. So I just snuggle closer.
He covers my hand with his, pressing it harder against his sternum. “My father didn’t handle it well. He was never what you’d call warm, but after she died, he just shut down. Buriedhimself in work. I’d go days without seeing him, even though we lived in the same house.”
Fourteen years old. This commanding, confident man as a grieving teenager, rattling around an empty house while his father disappeared into work. My throat tightens at the image.
“I learned early that if I wanted something to be okay, I had to make it okay myself. Control what I could control. Because everything else…” He pauses, swallows. “Everything else could disappear without warning.”
I think of how he plans every scene to enhance my pleasure. The boy and the man suddenly seem the same.
“You don’t have to control everything with me.” The words slip out before I can stop them. “I mean, you can. I like when you do. But you don’t have to.”
He looks down at me then. His expression steals the air from my lungs. It’s softer than I’ve ever seen him. Unguarded.
